


Angels Don't Dance

by Ensignabby



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 14:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ensignabby/pseuds/Ensignabby
Summary: He didn’t know why he tortured himself like this, really. Every time he told himself that he would regret it, and every time he would find himself led as if by magnet straight back to this supper club. To the fringes of the dance floor.





	Angels Don't Dance

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting in this fandom :) Had this little scenario running through my head after finishing the TV series. Not sure if anyone has written something similar, but I would appreciate any feedback. Enjoy!

The bubbles of his ’88 Krug brut floated gracefully in their effervescence, matching the expert footwork of the couples wafting past him. In his angel’s eye, Aziraphale could see the music and their movement harmonize, vibrations rippling out in unctious shades of passion red. The turn of longing hit his chest again, and he suddenly regretted his choice of drink. His mood clearly screamed for some dark single-malt.

He didn’t know why he tortured himself like this, really. Every time he told himself that he would regret it, and every time he would find himself led as if by magnet straight back to this supper club. To the fringes of the dance floor.

His admiration of humans never seemed to cease. Their resilience, their spirit…That admiration extended to their artistic expression, as well. There was no greater mark of the divine creator than in the pages of their books, the strokes of their paintbrushes, and the syncopation of their bodies in time to music.

If only angels were designed with that creative capacity.

_Angels don’t dance._

It was pounded into his mind like fact. He once made the mistake of noting his desire to at least _try_ , and the entire host had had a laugh at his expense.

_Angels don’t dance. We can’t dance. Don’t you know that? You’re not going native, are you?_

This led to the great Gavotte Experiment of the 1880s. It took Aziraphale ignoring the celestial snickers and better part of the entire decade to even master the simplistic footwork. He could only claim to have performed it perfectly just _once,_ but by heaven, did he feel _pride_ in proving his point.

Then came the Viennese Disaster of 1896.

_You see? Angels don’t dance._

It broke his heart so much that he never really could try again after that.

The melody shifted, tumultuous notes of a tango pooling. The room undulated an ardent purple as the dancers directed their energy into the floor.

The longing in Aziraphale’s chest turned once more, and with a shaky breath he tore his eyes away from the lover’s display. He rose to his feet. This was enough agony for one evening. His only option was to turn tail and put as much distance between him and the dancefloor as possible. Before he caved. Before he did something he would regret.

He had made it about two steps when a hand reached out from behind him and took a hold of his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. He didn’t need to turn to see who it was. The tips of the fingers pressing into his pulse point were all too familiar.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley’s gravelly voice urged. “Live a little.”

Aziraphale turned and looked at him, wishing those damn ever-present sunglasses were not in the way so he could read his friend’s intentions properly.

Crowley jerked his head back in the direction of the music, and Aziraphale looked once more at the couples swirling in their ethereal colors, and he wanted, _oh how he wanted…_

Aziraphale attempted to pull away.  “We… I can’t. Angels don’t dance,” he whispered, voice on the edge of despair.

Crowley’s grip tightened, and with a quick movement he pulled his friend off his center of balance, drawing him in, pressing him till he conformed against all of his edges. “True, angels don’t dance,” he conceded, bring his other hand around to hold him in place. “Angels don’t dance, but _demons do.”_

Aziraphale let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, reveling silently in their forms contrasting and complimenting each other so very nicely. Half dark, half light, altogether not unlike the humans he marveled at for all these six thousand years. _Maybe, just maybe…_ The hope must have lit up his face, because Crowley grinned in response, all teeth and confidence.

“Come on,” he said, pulling his ineffable, _inevitable_ partner towards the timbre of the throaty violin. “Let’s raise some hell, shall we?”


End file.
